


it's love, no doubt

by zxrysky



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Enjolras, Oblivious Grantaire, Original Character(s), Time Travel, it's happy in the end though, kind of, only one girl has magic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 08:52:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7308331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zxrysky/pseuds/zxrysky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire doesn’t even know how the girl has sparking powder in her hands; maybe she’s done some intense chemical experiments in her free time but Grantaire swears the powder appeared in her hand like magic which is really fucking hilarious but-</p><p>Grantaire’s the bigger joke, because he dives in front of Enjolras and gets the full blow of all the sparking powder. He passes out like someone switched off the light in his mind.</p><p>*</p><p>Grantaire starts living in 1832 Paris and current England. He isn't sure which is the reality he should hold onto and if he doesn't make a choice, he's not certain he's going to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's love, no doubt

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this after i watched les mis (2016) production at the theatre for the first time in my life - first ever play/musical i ever watched too, and i fell in love immediately.

Grantaire has always known that he got the short end of the stick. He’s a cynic, one of the better ones, and he shoots down Enjolras’ ideas like they’re at a fair and he’s trying to win a prize by playing some overpriced shooting game to hit an object that’s been rigged. Grantaire has worked with guns before and he’s fucking killer at that game, which is to say that he can give Enjolras as good as he’s got.

It also means that Enjolras is the idealistic one, the one with the big dreams and hopes and the guts to do whatever it takes to get there, but Grantaire is the one falling behind to pick up the slack and question the other end of the situation. Enjolras wants to stage another protest? What if the police show up with tear gas and guns again, and people die unnecessary deaths? Enjolras thinks that organizing a gathering to rally the people will help boost morale? Sure, but there’s bound to be people hidden in the crowd who think Enjolras is saying utter shit and spout about it to news media and twist it to make Enjolras seem like a cult leader.

Ugly thoughts are Grantaire’s territory. He’s awfully familiar with disturbing, unhappy, cynical thoughts, looking at things from the point of failure. It doesn’t help that he likes getting drunk either, since alcohol just lowers his inhibitions and apparently makes him more vocal, according to Combeferre, and his arguments get better.

It’s why he knows, and has known from the _start_ , that everything would come to a head and it would all go to shit, and there’s a slip of a girl hissing at Enjolras with sparking powder in her hand. Sparking, not sparkling powder. It looks like there’s electricity fizzing in her hands and Grantaire knows, he _knows_ that she’s about to throw it in Enjolras’ face to shut him up about how the people will come together to overthrow the current corrupt government and build a new, better city for all. If Grantaire had a handful of sparking powder in his hand and Enjolras preaching in front of him, he’d fling the powder at him too. She’s a cynic, he’s a cynic, if it weren’t for current situations they could have been best friends.

But Grantaire, stupid, daft, idiotic Grantaire, he joined this fucking _les amis_ for one reason only – even though that reason has spiraled into many reasons, what with the entourage of people in this group – and it’s the blond, blue-eyed Greek God look-a-like standing before him, who’s about to get hit with a face full of sparking powder.

Grantaire doesn’t even know how the girl has sparking powder in her hands; he’s always assumed that nothing is impossible until proven otherwise and maybe she’s done some intense chemical experiments in her free time but Grantaire swears the powder appeared in her hand like magic which is really fucking hilarious but-

Grantaire’s the bigger joke, because he dives in front of Enjolras and gets the full blow of all the sparking powder. It hurts like someone punched him in the face, harder than Enjolras ever has, harder than Bossuet ever has – which is _saying something_ – and he’s brave enough to admit he passes out like someone switched off the light in his mind.

He’s also pretty sure Enjolras catches him as he goes down, which is always a plus.

-=-

He’s dressed in something, something he can’t quite put his finger on because it’s starched to the point that it hurts his kneecaps to bend to sit, and his fingers are curled around the neck of a bottle. He’s seated at a table with maps strewn all over, plans drawn out in fading pencil lead and worn with markings that have been traced out over and over again. Is he- oh good lord, he’s wearing a fucking cravat.

Grantaire rips it off his neck and throws it on the floor. It looks hideous. Why on earth was he wearing that thing? He takes a long drink from his bottle. It tastes like beer, old and smoky and he takes another drink. Alcohol is always good.

“Grantaire,” someone says with amusement coloring his voice. “Drinking so early in the meeting? And whatever happened to your cravat?”

He looks up with a jolt because that’s Enjolras, Enjolras dressed in a white button down with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a vest, a _vest_ with a striking red tie and he’s wearing _suspenders_ – Grantaire’s heart is in his throat because honestly, this is all he could have ever wanted from Enjolras in fancy attire. He can’t swallow around the saliva pooling in his mouth because he’s certain, absolutely certain, that Enjolras does not have this good a fashion sense.

“It was suffocating,” he says with a shrug, eyes still pinned to Enjolras’ blinding blue eyes. “I had better things to pay attention to, like your rousing speech.”

“Interesting choice of word there.” Grantaire turns and it’s Courfeyrac, eyes glittering with mirth. “Don’t you always have a good word or two for Enjolras’ speeches? About how he’s far too idealistic? How the people of Paris won’t be able to fight against the government?”

“Well I’m not wrong,” Grantaire replies automatically, leaning back to lounge in his chair. It feels familiar, it feels normal, it feels like something Grantaire’s always known. “You can’t rally everyone, Enjolras. At most, it’s just us and a few other die hards. And you want us to go up against the whole National Guard? It’s suicide.”

Enjolras smiles like he always does, lips curling up at the side like he knows a secret Grantaire isn’t privy to, and he’d love to wipe that smirk off with something. Maybe his lips. Or the bottle in his hand, Grantaire’s not choosy.

“We stand a fighting chance,” he says easily, the words coming to him naturally. “We always do. And it’s not like any of us are particularly bad at guns.”

He winks at Grantaire, and Grantaire lifts his bottle in acknowledgement, tipping the mouth of the bottle in Enjolras’ direction. “As you say, fearsome leader,” Grantaire says, shrugging. “As you say.”

-=-

He wakes up and there’s pain behind his eyelids, pain in all his facial muscles, pain in his mind and he groans. It feels like a particularly shitty hangover.

There’s a body at his side, and Grantaire takes a short moment to panic and wonder if it really _is_ a hangover and he did something he may or may not regret. He peeks at his side and it’s Enjolras, dressed in a shirt and sweats, sleeping like the dead.

Well, both of them are dressed, Grantaire thinks with just a bit of sullenness. Clearly nothing happened.

And then he remembers the girl with the handful of sparking powder and he swears like a sailor.

“Language,” Enjolras groans as he wakes up slowly. Enjolras never truly functions in the morning until he’s had his first cup of coffee. It probably doesn’t occur to him that Grantaire is lying next to him, with pain in his face because of something he did to protect Enjolras.

Or maybe it does, with the way Enjolras opens an eye and flies up, hovering over Grantaire like he isn’t sure where to touch. “Are you okay?” He hedges.

“Do I look like I’m okay?” Grantaire throws back before closing his eyes. The darkness does nothing to mask the pain. It hurts. “I’m not okay, in case it somehow didn’t register.”

“Sorry,” Enjolras looks contrite, from where Grantaire squints at him. “I didn’t know she’d do something like that. And she got away, too. We were all a bit too worried about you going down and having a fizzing face.”

“Oh fuck,” Grantaire says loudly, and holds his hand up. “Mirror.”

Enjolras obediently passes him one, the most willing Grantaire’s probably ever seen Enjolras, and Grantaire chances a look in the mirror.

“Thank god it wasn’t acid that she threw at me,” he says thoughtfully as he turns to look at Enjolras. Only it’s not just Enjolras in the room now, there’s Courfeyrac and Combeferre at the bedside with Jehan and Feuilly at the door. They all look horrified at the thought of someone throwing acid at Grantaire’s face.

“Feel anything different?” Combeferre asks, calm as ever in this weird storm of vague panic and mostly worry. “The powder made everything seem a lot worse, and you mumbled some weird things in your sleep. Something about guns.”

“Not that you talking about guns is different from the usual,” Courfeyrac adds on, a grin tugging at his lips. “You do love shooting at the shooting range. I wouldn’t put it past you to dream about it.”

“… I dreamt I was wearing a cravat,” Grantaire says after a pause, vaguely thoughtful. He isn’t quite sure how to phrase it because the experience feels real, too real for something his admittedly wide imagination can cook up. That sight of Enjolras in a vest and suspenders with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows? He had to have seen it to imagine it. Grantaire’s imagination isn’t _that_ good.

Laughter breaks out all around as everyone pictures Grantaire in a stuffy cravat, white cloth fluffed up and in his face. Next to no one wears a cravat, not even at black tie events, unless you’re a prince. Or royalty. Definitely not Grantaire, artist extraordinaire, member of the _les amis_.

“I think you’re alright, but Joly insists that you be kept under close watch for a while, just in case the powder has some lingering effects that are slow acting,” Feuilly says. “You seem alright, but the dream of you wearing a cravat does seem weird.”

It’s still early in the morning and when the pain flares up beneath his eyes again, Enjolras takes it as his cue to start herding everyone out. Courfeyrac promises to swing by with alcohol later as Combeferre nods at his side, and Jehan leaves a few words in Sharpie on Grantaire’s skin. Feuilly gives him a light hug and Grantaire awkwardly pats him on the back. At least they didn’t get Gavroche here, who knows what a child could have done to his delicate sensibilities right now.

When it’s just him and Enjolras in the room, the two of them in silence as Enjolras busies about the room and Grantaire lies in bed, a thought occurs to him.

“You don’t have to stay, you know.” Grantaire dearly hopes Enjolras isn’t staying out of pity or some ill-advised belief of payment, seeing as Grantaire _did_ save him from a face full of sparking powder.

“I will.” Enjolras says firmly.

There’s another silence, one that’s quickly broken by Grantaire when he says, “I didn’t just dream I wore a cravat. I dreamt we were together in a room, all of us – all of _les amis_ , and we were discussing something about Paris.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Enjolras says, but there’s a smile playing at his lips. “Are you being delusional now? We haven’t been to Paris together, not all of us at one go. Where did the premise for that dream even come about?”

Grantaire chuckles and doesn’t say a word about how the plans on the table were plans for attack, and how after he had thought about it some more, it all felt too real to have been a dream. Somehow, he thinks, he was in Paris, wearing a cravat, talking to Enjolras and Courfeyrac about rallying people in Paris to fight.

-=-

It comes to him in dreams and memories, little snatches of the past scorching his mind and burning it in his soul, trapping him in the world of Paris and liberty, giving him the gift (and curse) of Enjolras being endlessly attractive. It makes Grantaire sullen in the morning, sullen in the evening, and groaning in the evening because for some deep, unclear reason, the Enjolras in the past is terribly in love with him.

Grantaire will never argue; he will never dispute it because he loves Enjolras with his whole heart, his whole soul, he’d gladly throw it all at the police if it meant keeping Enjolras safe and alive and that smile on his face. If Enjolras from corrupt Paris is in love with him, Grantaire will not fight against it.

Tonight it’s one of the nicer dreams, the sleepy early Parisan mornings where everything is trapped in a dreamy haze and Grantaire wakes up like he’s sipping at alcohol, everything slowly weaving into his consciousness and it feels glorious. The streets are quiet, the sky is barely bright and Enjolras is next to him with wandering hands that feel at home on Grantaire’s skin.

There are hands moving across his skin, warm and inviting and Grantaire hums. There are kisses pressed against his forehead, the corner of his eyes, his cheekbones, his clavicle, and the lips are softer than anything he’s ever felt-

The hands cleverly track across his skin, a familiar path that has been traversed one too many times and Enjolras is leaving marks all over, little love bites that press against his skin and ache even after he kisses them in apology. Grantaire likes the pain, he always had, and he pushes back against him.

Grantaire’s hands start wandering too, right at the break of dawn, the early mornings that everyone treasures when they have it. Grantaire’s heart feels full enough to burst, with how delightfully content he is. The cynic of _les amis_ , content at last, and it is at the hands of Enjolras the Chief of _les amis_.

Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts, he thinks. Everything is perfect.

-=-

It’s always a shock to his system, bright red and bloody when he wakes up alone in his bed, bottles of alcohol in his kitchen sink and Enjolras doesn’t love him, he doesn’t, doesn’t, doesn’t, and Grantaire doesn’t even know if Enjolras leans towards men.

And Enjolras smiles at him, blond hair catching the artificial light and blue eyes glittering when he sees Grantaire in the bar without a bottle of alcohol hanging from his fingertips and Grantaire thinks _it’s alright, it’s fine, I can hope like I always do_ and sets himself up for nothing but disappointment.

It hurts more when he’s so fucking aware that this love of his will amount to nothing.

It hurts so much more when he now knows what it feels like to have Enjolras’ lips on his.

-=-

They fight, as they always do, in dreams and reality, in the little room in Paris and in the back of the bar in England, always fighting, always throwing sharp words at each other and cutting through skin like it’s paper. Their fights are always one for the books, if there’re any books at all, but everyone just looks at them and sighs, buckling down for what will be a long journey.

This time, this time Grantaire feels like he’s losing time, losing his sense of awareness, losing his memory because he stares at Enjolras’ face and he feels rising anger pushing him to force out more scathing words but he’s unsure of which time he’s in. Are they fighting for freedom against this corrupt society, for gay pride – or are they fighting for liberty in Paris, fighting with guns and gunpowder and barricades fashioned out of household items because they have nothing left?

He throws something out, anything he can rip out of his mind that’s generic enough and he knows it’s a poor rebuttal; he doesn’t need Enjolras to stop in his footsteps and stare blankly at Grantaire, he _knows_ , _he fucking knows_ it’s weak.

Grantaire’s fingers close around nothing, his bottle sneakily taken away by a concerned Jehan and he snarls, turning on his heel and stalking out of the room. He exits into a bar on the streets of England; teenagers walking around with earphones tucked into their ears and fingers tapping away at handheld screens, loud blares of cars honking at each other like the apocalypse is at hand, the buildings are lit up with advertisements like flares and Grantaire inhales the smoke of exhaust fumes.

He’s in England, he tells himself, and he almost walks into a telephone pole when his vision blurs and he swears he sees prostitutes calling at the sides, dressed in tattered Victorian-esque clothing. _Stop it_ , he mutters, blinking furiously and looking at his surroundings. _You’re in England. Not Paris._

 _Aren’t you in Paris?_ Grantaire swears he sees Jehan tell him that, and he watches with mild horror as Jehan disappears into the crowd with a nod of his bowler hat even as he knows Jehan is in the bar with the rest of _les amis_.

He swallows tightly, and sets out to find that girl.

-=-

The girl, when he finds her, is worried. She’s fully aware of what she’s done, she says, and it’s the first time she did magic like that, so she’s willing to bear full responsibility of all repercussions.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly,” she says, awfully contrite. “I wasn’t aiming for you.”

“It’s alright,” Grantaire says, not feeling alright at all. “I just keep thinking I see myself in 1832 Paris, that’s all.”

She looks absolutely horrified, and begs off to make some calls. Grantaire lets her go and watches as she hurries to the phone, talking a mile a minute and looks over at him occasionally.

“Give it to me straight, good doctor,” Grantaire jokes when she returns, face ashen. “Am I going to die?”

She stays silent, and Grantaire’s smile drops. But she’s just a girl, albeit a feisty one who would have attacked Enjolras, and she looks like she’s on the edge of tears. Grantaire hurriedly presses his smile back on his face and opens his arms wide.

He’s far too accustomed to playing the role of the fool. He can play it a bit more for this girl.

“It’s alright,” he repeats confidently, though his heart wavers. “Give it to me straight.”

The news, all in all, is terrible.

-=-

He may die, though that isn’t really news to him. All humans must perish one way or another, in one time or another, and the only worry he has is that perhaps his imminent death is a little ahead of time.

There is also the problem of possible memory loss, which worries him more. He doesn’t want to wake up and forget Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Jehan, or any of the _les amis_. He certainly doesn’t want to forget Enjolras, and especially not Enjolras in Victorian-esque outfit, not when he looks so fucking beautiful.

“You should stay here until I figure out what to do,” the girl says quietly, and Grantaire has to find it in him to disagree.

 

“I’ll be noticed if I’m missing,” he tells her gently. “I know you didn’t mean this, and I’m honestly a little mad, but if I go missing right now they’ll probably come after you. They _do_ remember you, after all.”

She’s just a little slip of a girl, younger than Eponine, and Grantaire can’t seem to find the will to stay mad at her.

“Will they be mad at you?” She asks hesitantly.

“Probably,” Grantaire replies cheerfully. “I’ll walk in with a bottle of alcohol and they’ll always be exasperated with me.”

More alcohol to drown his sorrows. Easiest game plan he’s ever made.

-=-

Enjorlas slowly coaxes Grantaire to relinquish his hold on the bottle and presses a kiss to his lips as a reward. Grantaire stares bleakly up at him and sighs, rolling over on the bed.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says in amusement, wrapping himself around Grantaire. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” Grantaire says petulantly, angry at the world. “Why can’t you always be this nice to me? Or always this in love with me? Why is England you so straight?”

“England me?” Enjolras asks. “I know we’ve talked about visiting England, but why would there be an England me? We live in Paris.”

“Paris is too French for me,” Grantaire mutters, and Enjorlas laughs, voice rich with humor.

“But you love me.”

Grantaire thinks, _yes, you fucking idiot, I do._ “Screw off,” he says, but they both know what he doesn’t say.

He loves this Enjolras with a desperate aching love, wanting this because it’s what he can’t have, but this love can never compare with how he feels for _his_ Enjolras, back in England. That love is real and bitter and painful but it’s also a rush, a high that Grantaire’s never felt before, and it hurts his heart.

He loves the same man in two times, and the one he loves more doesn't love him back.

-=-

“Maybe you should tell them?” The girl makes the statement sound like a question, with how tentative her tone is, and Grantaire laughs bleakly.

“No,” he says, pain dripping off his words to convince her otherwise. “I won’t breathe a word to them.”

-=-

Enjolras loves him, loves him with a passion, loves him with a fury unbridled, loves him with his whole soul, his whole heart, and would give anything for Grantaire to be happy. Grantaire knows this. He is fully aware of this, but he also knows that he is tied at the top priority in Enjolras’ heart with the revolutionary effort in Paris.

It’s why he lets it go when Enjolras can’t sleep in anymore, always rushing around trying to get everything in order. Enjolras is a busy man with a goal in life and Grantaire is just going along for the ride, his heart torn into two. Enjolras smiles at him, eyes blindingly bright and it makes Grantaire so painfully happy.

“I wish you were someone else,” he mutters to himself when Enjolras can’t hear. “I wish you were _mine_.”

Sometimes Enjolras catches the last part and presses himself against Grantaire, the skin on skin contact immensely gratifying. “I’m yours,” he murmurs against Grantaire’s lips. “I’ve always been yours, and I’ll always be yours.”

Grantaire smiles back with pain in his eyes and a heart that he has no idea how to fix.

-=-

“I don’t know if I can fix this,” the girl says in a rush, eyes filled with tears. Grantaire holds his hands up in shock.

“What?” He says, exceptionally intelligently.

“You’re too attached to that world,” she says tearfully. “There’s something there that binds you, something there that has a hold on you that you can’t bring yourself to let go off and that’s stopping me from lifting the spell because I could tear your heart in two and you’d die!”

 _Enjolras,_ he thinks bitterly, lovingly, achingly. _You’ll always be the death of me._

“I’ll see what I can do,” he replies, running a hand through his hair and feeling lost, feeling broken, feeling useless.

-=-

Someone slaps him in the face, slaps him good and hard and _oh_ how it hurts, how it stings and it’s a good slap. Grantaire would rate it ten out of ten stars, would be slapped again if he knew the reason why.

It’s Enjolras, backed up by almost the whole _les amis_ and everyone looks like they’ve been crying with red rimmed eyes, tissues galore and Enjolras looks heartbroken which is never pretty. And Grantaire can’t help but feel just a little bitter about it because he’s seen Enjolras heartbroken over someone else, someone who isn’t Grantaire, further proving that Enjolras does feel emotions in a romantic way to some people and it isn’t to Grantaire, which hurts like a sledgehammer to the face.

“You _idiot_ ,” Enjolras enunciates with all the precision he can, and Grantaire blinks. “Why didn’t you _tell us_?”

“Tell you what?” Grantaire asks, like an idiot.

“About the curse!” Jehan says, tears dripping like his eyes are a waterfall and he throws himself at Grantaire who catches him with the easy experience of a man who has caught Jehan many, many times.

“What?” Grantaire repeats, like a broken recorder. “What curse?”

“Don’t be a idiot,” Combeferre says. “The one where you’re trapped in Paris. And you’re getting weaker.”

“I am?” Grantaire asks in wonder. “I mean, I know I feel more tired than usual, but I thought that’s because I’m cutting down on the alcohol and there isn’t anything to give me that boost, y’know?”

“No, it’s because you’re being _drained_ by the curse,” Jehan mutters angrily. “It takes energy to maintain two times at once, and since you’re the focal point, the energy is being drained from you!”

“Oh,” Grantaire replies, “That kind of makes sense.”

He pauses, arms wrapped around Jehan, before his eyes blow wide. “But that doesn’t explain how all of you know!”

“She told us,” Feuilly says from the back, rubbing at his eyes. “The girl, the one with the powder, she called Enjolras and told him everything, then he told her to stop and called us over and put her on speaker and told her to repeat everything. Grantaire, _you absolute idiot._ ”

“I’m not an idiot,” he says, an ingrained reflex, and Jehan slaps him on the arm. “Maybe I’m a bit of an idiot,” he corrects.

“You should have told us,” Courfeyrac says, sounding utterly betrayed. “We can probably do something to help, but you were trying to be emotionally detached or something, weren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Grantaire allows. “Oops?”

Enjolras is seething quietly at the side, hands clenched into fists and they’re shaking like he’s so, so afraid for Grantaire. He likes to think it means Enjolras cares because Grantaire means more than just a friend but the longer he stares at Enjolras’ blue eyes that he could definitely drown in – and drown willingly – he thinks otherwise.

The group spreads out, Bousset raiding his kitchen and taking a long drink out of the bottle of wine in his fridge, probably trying to calm his nerves. Joly looks like he’s about to stress bake and Grantaire won’t stop him – that man can bake like a god.

Enjolras and the two Cs settle in front of him, eyes stormy with seriousness and Grantaire isn’t sure if he’s entirely capable of taking them seriously since they just look like they’re going to throw a recruitment pitch at him. They seem to have very limited facial expressions. Then again, Grantaire is way too sober for this whole conversation.

“Are you comfortable with sharing information about your other time?” Combeferre asks first. “If we can pinpoint what holds your attention in that time, maybe we can divert that attention and help you focus more on this time. You won’t be so focused on that time, in that case.”

Will Grantaire tell them that the reason he’s so attached to the other time is because he has an Enjolras who loves him? No. Those words will never pass through his lips as long as he lives.

“There’s just someone,” Grantaire says awkwardly. “Someone I kind of like over there.”

Courfeyrac, once again, looks like he’s been betrayed and turns to visibly stare at Enjolras before turning back to look at Grantaire. Grantaire gives him a weak smile. It’s not his fault he’s been so painfully obvious about being in love with Enjolras that everyone knows. Neither is it Enjolras’ fault for being oblivious to the point of pain.

“So it’s mainly attraction,” Combeferre says slowly, always the one on track, bringing the conversation back. Enjolras is broody and silent, never a good combination, but his eyes are always trained on Grantaire and Grantaire is certain he’s never held Enjolras’ attention for so long. It feels so good it’s giving him goose bumps. “If we switched the focus of attraction to someone here, do you think you will feel less attachment to the someone from the other time?”

This feels less and less like a conversation amongst friends to help a cursed friend; it feels more like a psychology therapy session. Grantaire shrugs, careful to not look at Enjolras.

“It may work. But um, he likes me too, so it’s kind of a requited affection, and that may be why I’m so attached to that place?” Grantaire phrases it like a question, not the statement it should be because even he isn’t sure of his current condition and Enjolras also looks like he’s about to kill a man.

Courfeyrac chokes on his spit and makes a dying noise. Combeferre blanches a bit but takes it all in stride and nods. “If we transferred your affection over to someone here and have it requited, your attention will most probably shift.”

“So we just need to find Grantaire a date?” Courfeyrac asks. “A _boyfriend_?”

“Probably,” Combeferre replies, and Enjolras sits uselessly at the side, nothing to offer. “It seems the only option we have right now.”

Courfeyrac grins and rubs his hands together. “I’m going to save you from this crisis,” he tells Grantaire loudly, drawing the attention of the other _les amis_. “To help Grantaire, we need to find him a boyfriend!”

“A- a boyfriend?” Jehan says, turning to look at Enjolras’ stiff body before looking at Grantaire, who shrugs and leans back, as if to say _what can you do?_

-=-

First he meets a man who can’t hold a conversation and Grantaire begs off around two minutes into the date.

“I think serial killing is an admirable profession. They’re doing what they love, after all. It’s very important to do what one loves in life,” he says.

“I totally agree,” the man replies, and Grantaire stands up and smiles at the man very politely before placing the appropriate amount of money needed for the payment of his meal and dashes off.

Courfeyrac is his emergency pick up, and he’s shocked at how fast Grantaire drops into the car.

“Bad?” He asks.

“He agreed with me when I said serial killing is an admirable profession,” Grantaire tells him, and Courfeyrac floors it.

-=-

The next man is blond, blue eyed, looks nothing like Enjolras and recovering from a particularly emotional relationship. This one is a friend of Feuilly’s and Grantaire feels obliged to stay to the end at the very least.

But this man takes it as a chance to start crying about his ex and how he still loves the man, and halfway through the date he stands up and apologizes profusely to Grantaire, tears in his eyes as he clutches the scarf in his hands.

“I still love him,” he admits tearfully. “I’m not ready to enter another relationship. I’m so sorry.”

At least, Grantaire reflects, he’s an honest man. Unfortunately, Grantaire is left with the bill.

Feuilly is grimacing when Grantaire enters the car and apologizes for his friend’s behavior.

“I thought he was over his ex,” Feuilly explains as he drives away from the diner. “Didn’t know he was so hung up over him.”

“Well now we both know,” Grantaire says. “He left me with the bill.”

“Oh, he does that!” Feuilly says cheerfully. “One of his faults.”

Grantaire isn’t quite sure what to think.

-=-

He opens the door and it’s not Bousset or Jehan, like he’d thought it’d be on this Friday evening; it’s Enjolras, dressed in a blue bottom up and jeans that look like they were painted on.

“Want to hang out?” He asks, and Grantaire just pulls open the door in reply, tongue still feeling exceptionally heavy in his mouth as he watches Enjolras enter his house.

Grantaire blinks as Enjolras thumbs through the movies he’s brought and lays them out on the table. Enjolras looks over them, peers at the movies Grantaire’s collected over the years and turns to look back at Grantaire who’s still standing at the open door, shock thrumming through his body.

He smiles lightly, running a hand through his hair and asks, “Which one do you feel like watching?”

Grantaire could die now and die happy.

He closes the door, slowly, stupidly, and inches over to the sofa. “Anything’s fine,” he says carefully. If he chooses the wrong movie, there’s nothing stopping Enjolras from getting up and leaving. He’s pretty sure if he chooses something like a documentary on how monarchs are as a good and functional form of governance, Enjolras will destroy his television before storming out of the house.

“You pick,” Enjolras says, smiling. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering pizza.”

“Pizza,” Grantaire echoes, and looks down at his choices. “Maybe Harry Potter?”

“Which one?” Enjolras asks, smile still on his face. He looks terribly smug at making Grantaire make all these difficult choices. Grantaire stares at the Harry Potter movies laid out before him and says a quick prayer to the heavens before choosing the third one.

“Oh, good choice,” Enjolras says, good mood still in place and Grantaire feels like he’s just won a war. A war in his mind, probably against his own self created fear of driving Enjolras away due to poor movie choices. Enjolras starts the movie and they curl up on the sofa, dragging towards them a throwaway blanket that Bousset probably left on the armchair next to the sofa.

When the pizza arrives, it’s warm and delicious, like pizza should always be. Grantaire’s in on a Friday night, watching Harry Potter scream about his not so criminal godfather on television as he eats pizza with _Enjolras_ – how surreal is that – and he can’t help but think that it’s good. It’s good, the way this is. It’s nice.

-=-

For some reason, the numerous dates have stopped. When Courfeyrac learns that Enjolras came over on Friday night to watch movies, he flails around for a while before rapidly texting something to someone. Afterwards, he claps Grantaire on the back and wishes him the best of luck.

Grantaire has no idea what’s going on but he accepts the luck. He still feels tired, still feels an old ache in his bones, a weariness settling in, but it seems lighter somehow, and maybe it’s all this interaction with friends that has turned the tides.

Enjolras makes it a point to come over every Friday night, and now every Friday night is movie night. They’ve had three movie nights, and the girl looks slightly relieved when Grantaire drops by.

“This is good progress,” she tells him, glowing hands patting all over his body to check on him. “This is good.”

Grantaire isn’t even aware he made progress, but he’ll accept all and any praise.

-=-

When he sees Enjolras in a vest, sleeves at his elbows and suspenders hanging off him like a god, it doesn’t hurt as much. This Enjolras doesn’t try to steal popcorn from him, doesn’t have a mancrush on Leonardo Di Caprio, doesn’t enjoy playing Mario Kart and thrashing Grantaire’s ass. This Enjorlas is gorgeous, Aphrodite emblazoned into the form of a human, and he’s so passionate about what he does that Grantaire swears people follow him like he’s dropping gold coins with every word he speaks, and Grantaire loves him but his love feels like it’s been cooled down. It isn’t as fierce, it isn’t as intense, it isn’t as hurried. It feels calmer, like he’s been given a chance to take it all in and reflect.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras murmurs, pressing against him as Feuilly and Bahorel argue over the guns. “You alright?”

“I’m alright,” Grantaire smiles, and thinks of Enjolras waiting for him, curled up under the blanket on his old sofa, movie already buffering and waiting for Grantaire, popcorn ready on the table. “I feel great.”

Enjolras presses a kiss against the side of Grantaire’s lips, and it doesn’t hurt as much.

-=-

“What do you see in Paris?” Enjolras asks him one evening when the movie is being troublesome and isn’t loading. It buffers irritatingly, spinning in that grey circle. “Who’s the someone you like?”

Grantaire blanches. How does he break it to Enjolras? “He’s nice. Blond, blue eyes, passionate, fights for a cause he believes in,” he says cautiously.

It should be a giveaway, but Enjolras frowns and fiddles with the blanket as he thinks. To be fair, Enjolras isn’t aware that there’s a version of him in Paris.

“He’s a lot like you,” Grantaire offers, watching Enjolras and he’s surprised when Enjolras’s lips tug down even further and he sinks further into the sofa, burrowing into the blanket.

Grantaire doesn’t think twice before leaning over and pressing his lips against the side of Enjolras’ lips, the way he does when Enjolras is upset in Paris, the way Enjolras does it at random times to him in Paris.

Enjolras looks up at him, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. Grantaire flushes, reaching around behind him and his fingers close around the bottle of wine – a comfort.

“Just habit,” he says. Enjolras looks even more confused.

-=-

“Okay, Grantaire, talk to me,” Courfeyrac says decisively, tumbling into Grantaire’s house with ice cream tubs in his hands. “I’ve got ice cream and Combeferre’s got his laptop with Skype up and running; we’re going to group chat and you’re going to explain this thing.”

“Enjolras is confused out of his mind,” Combeferre says without any preamble, settling on Grantaire’s couch. “Frankly, so am I. We haven’t really been pressing much, but I think we’d all like to know who you’re so attached to, and why you kissed Enjolras and called it a habit.”

Grantaire swallows, and his phone screen lights up. He surreptitiously checks it and it’s Jehan.

 _If you’re uncomfortable, don’t say anything. I’ll try to hold them off_.

The message is calming, the knowledge that he has someone behind him is satisfying. But Grantaire probably needs to tell his friends anyways – this is getting way too complicated.

“What I say cannot leave this room,” he says carefully, looking everyone in the eye. “And what I say _cannot_ be shared with Enjolras. I’ll tell him myself when I feel comfortable with it, okay?”

His friends are good friends, no matter how they push at each other and tease each other, and they all agree.

Grantaire can’t- he can’t believe he’s doing this, but he takes a deep breath and confesses it all before he second-guesses himself. He recounts Paris in 1832 when the streets are filled with filth, when prostitutes call to noblemen and hide from the police, when slaves are still in use and there’s a little group of revolutionaries made up of men from all walks of life called _les amis_ , when this group of revolutionaries are preparing to fight against the monarchy and call for a change. They are armed with guns and are ready to fight in the streets, fight for their cause, and at the head of it all, leading this whole revolutionary procession that has roused the people of Paris from their smoky slumber, is Enjolras with his golden locks, brilliant blue eyes and words that are made of magic.

In a quieter voice, he talks about how for some unknown reason he absolutely can’t fathom, can’t grasp, but holds on to dearly anyways, Enjolras loves him in 1832 Paris, loves him with a furious passion that Grantaire gets swept up in because he’s always been in love with Enjolras and everyone sitting on his couch and everyone on the computer screen is fully aware of it. They know that Grantaire is a weak man – though no one knows it better than Grantaire himself – and they are all aware that if Grantaire, by a stroke of luck, finds an Enjolras in a time that adores him the way he wishes the Enjolras of this time will love him, he’s-

He’s hard pressed to _not_ cling to Enjolras in 1832 Paris and live in dreams and pretend fantasies where they love each other.

“Oh Grantaire,” Joly murmurs from the screen and reaches out, pressing his fingertips against his screen. “We’re going to come over, just wait a bit, okay?”

Combeferre has his arms wrapped tightly around Grantaire’s shoulders and Courfeyrac’s chest is pressed against Grantaire’s back, arms around Grantaire’s abdomen and hugging him fiercely.

“Oh Grantaire,” Combeferre says quietly, like a flame flickering out of existence, voice full of pain and sorrow.

Grantaire laughs once, a pained, choked up laugh, and rubs at his eyes. “Oh yeah,” he replies, tilting his head back to rest on Coufeyrac’s shoulders. “I’ve screwed up again, haven’t I?”

-=-

It’s been two months and Grantaire feels like he’s seeing double. He isn’t quite so hung up on Enjolras and his escapades in Paris, not now when he has Enjolras on movie nights. He’s seeing Enjolras in a new light, the quiet glow of the computer screen when they’re both tired and dropping off to sleep. He sees Enjolras coming in early to the back of the bar and bringing Grantaire a cup of coffee because it’s better than alcohol, according to him. He sees Enjolras’ breathless smile when Grantaire opens the door before Enjolras even knocks and everything for movie night is set up.

But it’s bad. Grantaire’s also seeing red flags draped along the streetlights when he walks home at night. He’s seeing carriages drawn by horses trotting along the streets, he’s seeing dark alleyways and he hears murmurs of freedom in French muttered as he goes to buy groceries. There is talk on the streets about the revolution coming along, about the barricade they’re building, about the guns and the songs and how the monarchy will finally get what it deserves.

The way the curse works, the girl explained to him once, is that it activates when Grantaire sleeps. When he sleeps, he’s transported to 1832 Paris, and he’s awake over there. He doesn’t get full days in Paris – just as Grantaire’s sleeping schedule is incredibly irregular, he only gets interspersed pockets of time, little moments to keep dear to his heart here and there. It means that when he’s in 1832 Paris, he should be sleeping in this time.

Grantaire knows he’s awake when he walks into Jehan’s house and sees all the electronics strewn around, the steam fogging up the mirrors and the sound of Jehan singing as he takes a hot shower. But he can’t seem to erase from his sight the image of people waving red flags, the bright eyes in the streets as people dressed in coats tip their hats to him and press papers in his palms and murmur about how France will be free. They think they’re converting him, which is funny, because Grantaire’s sitting there at the heart of where the revolution planning is at its highest.

He calls Joly and informs him of the situation, and Joly is rushing over immediately, eyes worried and arms outstretched, bundling Grantaire into a hug before quickly checking his vitals.

“You look perfectly fine Joly,” Grantaire tells him in amusement when Joly hurriedly asks him for what he sees. “But I do believe I saw a man exit the flat next to Jehan’s in a trench coat and a bowler hat with a pipe in his mouth and a suitcase. I asked him where he was going and he told me he was going to business, you see, printing out a news article on the latest rally of the _les amis_ about freedom for France.”

“I don’t know if that’s good or bad,” Joly says, going through Grantaire’s vitals again. “But I’m pretty sure that’s bad. Should we ask the girl to come over to check?”

“I feel fine,” Grantaire reassures. “Just wanted to keep you aware in case anything happens. But nothing feels like it’s going to happen.”

“We should just call her,” Joly says, reaching for his phone. “Just in case.”

“Yeah alright,” Grantaire says, and doesn’t say anything about how his fingers tremble, or about how he’s very carefully not making eye contact with Enjolras from 1832 Paris leaning against the wall, staring at him with contemplative eyes. It’s the first time he’s seen Enjolras from Paris standing before him when he very clearly knows he’s _awake_ , and it’s disarming.

Maybe he’s getting worse.

-=-

“You’re getting worse.” The girl says it quickly, like ripping off a band-aid, and Grantaire winces.

“How bad?”

“Very,” she says grimly, eyes slightly wet and face ashen. “Why haven’t you let go of your focus on the other world yet?”

“Hey kid, these things take quite a while, okay,” he replies. “I’m trying to let go but it’s _hard_ , alright? He’s not making it easy to let go.”

No, Enjolras is not making it easy to let go. He’s smiling more, delirious with anticipation and adrenaline of the barricade fight in the very near future and he’s become a lot more tactile. Grantaire is a tactile person, and having someone else want to touch him so often is a miracle in itself. The fact that it’s Enjolras makes it all the better.

“Try harder.”

“I wish it’s as easy as you make it out to be,” he says as he scrunches up his nose in distaste.

-=-

Enjolras, for once, doesn’t stay back after a _les amis_ meeting. He smiles and bids his goodbyes to everyone before grabbing Grantaire and pulling him to Grantaire’s home.

“Uh,” Grantaire says as Enjolras tightens his grip on Grantaire. “Why are we going to my house?”

“I have something to tell you,” Enjolras replies, eyes steady as he tosses a look back at Grantaire. “Something important. Combeferre and Courfeyrac told me to tell you before it drags on for too long.”

 _What_ , Grantaire thinks, and dread settles in his stomach. Enjolras could be telling him anything, honestly, and even though he’ll feel endless anger and betrayal if the two Cs had told Enjolras about his situation, he understands. Grantaire probably wouldn’t be able to refuse Enjolras either, if Enjolras comes to him asking for answers with those perfect blue eyes. Grantaire’s probably just going to enter a daze and answer everything Enjolras asks him while his vision gets foggy.

It probably says something that Enjolras has a key in his pocket. Grantaire very rarely gives out spare keys to anyone; Feuilly, Joly and Jehan are the lucky few who own a key to Grantaire’s house, but apparently Enjolras has joined the ranks of those lucky few. Seeing Enjolras twist the key in the lock and open the door like he’s coming home sends a quick thrill rushing through Grantaire, a small jolt of pleasure.

“We need to talk,” Enjolras says, pushing Grantaire onto the sofa. Those four words have never been the prelude of anything good and Grantaire swallows. His nervousness eats up his brain to mouth filter and he’s desperately regretful of what comes out of his mouth afterwards.

“You know, when I pictured you pushing me onto the sofa, it wasn’t in this situation.” Grantaire looks horrified as the words tumble out of his mouth. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking; he _was_ nursing a bottle throughout the meeting but he didn’t even finish half, which says something, he hopes. Though evidently, his tolerance is a lot lower than what he imagined if his inhibitions are already lowered so far.

Enjolras’ eyebrows rise so high they could disappear below his hair and there’s a smile on his face, the smile Grantaire would pay good money to see. “Grantaire,” he says, sitting down and taking Grantaire’s hands. “I really like you, and would like to go on a date with you.”

“What?” Grantaire replies, blinking rapidly. He feels his breath catch in his throat and he’s a hundred percent certain he’s stopped breathing. His palms are probably sweating like crazy.

And oh- an explanation pops into his mind, something he isn’t happy about but surely it’s the only way to explain this? “Is this because you’re trying to divert my attention onto something in this time?” Grantaire asks. “I know the problem now is that I’m too attached to someone in the other time but that’s because he likes me and I like him and is this why you’re confessing to me? To make me like you and focus on you so I lose my attachment to the other time?”

“What?” Now it’s Enjolras’ turn to be confused, blue eyes cloudy with hesitancy. “Grantaire, no, I would never. I didn’t think you thought me capable to stoop so low!”

Enjolras sounds a bit like he’s getting angry, and his grip tightens as he clenches his jaw. “I can’t believe you’d think I’m just doing this just to make you stay. Is this a joke to you? I- I really worked up to this, and I thought I was being obvious with all the movie dates and bringing you coffee and walking you home sometimes – do you really think I’d do all that to someone I didn’t like?”

And oh no, _oh no_ , Grantaire thinks, Enjolras looks hurt. Grantaire reaches for him, lips already forming around an apology but Enjolras shies away just a little, and Grantaire freezes. He’s been a friend of Enjolras’ for a long time, and he’s all too aware of how hard it is for Enjolras to sit down and talk about matters of the heart. Ask him to make a speech on revolutionary freedom and democracy and he’ll do the job on the spot; ask him to have a heart-to-heart talk with one of his dearest friends, like Combeferre, and he’ll pretend to be a rock because he can’t voice his emotions.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says, and it feels like all he’s been doing these days is apologize. “I didn’t- I overreacted, I thought that you, being you, all God-like and breathtakingly gorgeous wouldn’t actually, well, go for someone like me and I assumed because I couldn’t believe that you’d like me and I’m _sorry_ , Enjolras, I-”

“You shouldn’t put yourself down,” Enjolras cuts in, furrowing his brows and frowning lightly. “I like you for your intellect, your wit, your fire – as cheesy as it sounds – and I like how you’re always pushing me, challenging me, and you look like you enjoy the whole ordeal. You’re good looking, which is a bonus, but why would you ever think I wouldn’t like you?”

Grantaire laughs, high and slightly panicky. “Because, Enjolras,” he says quickly, wanting to get this sappy confession over with. “I’ve been in love with you since forever.”

Enjolras looks like he’s been hit by a sledgehammer in the face. “Forever?” He echoes, voice going slightly high. “Since _when_?”

“Since the time I accidentally spilt coffee on you,” Grantaire says. “And you told me it was fine but I could see your eye twitch and it _wasn’t_ fine. And later on we were having a _les amis_ meeting and I was a newcomer and I challenged you just to see that twitch again and it was glorious. You were gorgeous, Enjolras, you always have been. It sounds stupid but I’ve loved you for a long time.”

Grantaire wants nothing but to burrow in the blanket just a little distance away and _die_ , thank you very much, just remove his soul from this mortal prison and go to heaven or hell – probably hell, with all his vices – and he doesn’t want to see the small pleased smile on Enjolras’ face because it’s going to make _him_ happy.

Enjolras grins quietly, a flush on his face as he looks down at their joined hands, inordinately pleased at hearing that Grantaire’s been in love with him from the start and it’s such a shy reaction that Grantaire’s heart hurts.

“I really wasn’t thinking about directing your attention,” Enjolras whispers, but Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him because this is _Enjolras_ , this may not have been his main push factor, sure, but it has definitely popped into his mind at least once.

“Okay fine,” he admits with a shaky smile. “I _was_ planning to confess, but I didn’t know when was the right time and knowing that I could lose you to someone in _Paris_ , from a different time altogether, I- I guess I got nervous. And I wanted to speed things up. Your situation did push me to confess faster but I want you to know that I had this notion from the start,” Enjolras says earnestly. “I really do like you Grantaire, I have for a long time, since, um, maybe that one Christmas party where we hung out on the balcony together for a while because everyone was screaming Christmas carols inside.”

Grantaire feels like his heart is torn between thumping like he’s taken steroids and freezing up like he’s undergone cryogenic freezing. He’s more than a little bit mind blown because of how delightfully surreal the whole thing is.

“Um,” Grantaire says, face the color of tomatoes. “That’s nice.”

He doesn’t know what else to say. Enjolras grins at him, and Grantaire’s lips tug up automatically in return. No matter who it is, when Enjolras smiles at them, not only is it common courtesy to smile back, it’s pretty much psychically impossible to _not_ smile back at Enjolras. He looks like a delighted angel when he smiles, a terribly pleased Greek God. It’s a sight for sore eyes.

Grantaire leans in hesitantly, and presses a kiss against Enjolras’ lips. It’s familiar and strange all at once, and Grantaire feels like something deep within him settles, digs a hole in his heart cavity and calls it home.

Enjolras is bright eyed, lips spread in a smile, hair shining beneath artificial light and Grantaire is ensnared. This is it, he thinks, leaning in again for another kiss. This is what he’s been waiting for.

-=-

Somewhere, in 1832 Paris, there is a blond man standing at the ruins of a barricade, the weight of broken dreams on his shoulders, and his hands are up, palms facing the horde of policemen staring at him with guns ready for fire. He is smiling, tired and weary but still pleased beyond words. He’s fought for what he believes in, and if he’s to die for this same cause, he’ll do it in a moment’s breath.

Next to him, a man groans and stands from the wreckage, running a hand through his black hair and lifting the other into the sky. “Vive la République! J'en suis.” The man grins, and tilts his head to look at the blond man. There is the stench of alcohol on his breath, as there always is.

They grasp each other’s hands and the policemen lift their guns higher, ready in position, and they breathe their last with their hands interlocked, fingers clenching tight against each other until their blood stops pumping through their hearts. They die with smiles on their faces, dreams in their minds, and love in their hearts.

Somewhere, in England, Grantaire feels a load lift off his shoulders.

-=-

“It’s gone,” the girl says, eyes wide. “The spell, it’s gone, I don’t understand how or why, but it’s, um, gone.”

“ _Gone_ ?” Jehan stresses, hugging Grantaire tighter against him. “Like _gone, gone_ , or like may be back gone, like cancer?”

“Really gone,” she replies. “I think,” she hastily adds, but cowers under the force of Joly looming over her. Joly doesn’t look like much, but he has Bousset behind him and the two of them combined is a force that can’t be reckoned with. “I’ve never done this spell before, but I really think that all lingering traces of it are gone, so I’m very sure it’s gone!”

“Hey back off,” Grantaire says, pushing at Joly and Bousset. “She’s trying, okay? And she’s still just a kid.” He turns to her and offers a smile. “Is it alright if I come back once in a while to check if the spell comes back? Like a little check up every now and then, yeah?”

He phrases it carefully, nicely, like she has a choice – which Grantaire will fully offer her, but there’s no certainty when it comes to the rest of _les amis_ who really did lose their heads over Grantaire’s, um, affliction.

She nods, eyes on Grantaire because both of them know that if her eyes were to slide to the side and land on Enjolras – who’s holding Grantaire’s hand, bless the lord – she’ll get angry again.

She’s confided in him before when he dropped by, when Grantaire’s visits were still secrets. She told him that she absolutely hates idealistic people who think they can change the world with every little step they can make. And Enjolras, delightfully so, is one of those people – thought he _is_ actually making a difference – and she doesn’t like him, simply put.

“Thanks,” he says, offering her a hand.

She takes it and gingerly shakes his hand. “I didn’t do much. Sorry, again.”

“Nah,” Grantaire says, turning slightly to look at Enjolras. Enjolras is smiling at him, features soft and happy, and Grantaire turns back to face the girl with a smile on his face. “You did a lot.”

When _les amis_ leaves, Enjolras grips his hand just a little tighter and presses a kiss to the side of Grantaire’s lips. So it’s an Enjolras thing, he thinks happily. Enjolras really likes kissing the side of his lips, just barely brushing across his lips.

Grantaire is happy, happy beyond words, and if he didn’t find himself in 1832 Paris then maybe, well, he wouldn’t have ended up here.

He kisses Enjolras quickly, a light press of lips, and smiles.

Somewhere else, he hopes, in 1832 Paris, Enjolras finds love with his Grantaire.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a review on your way out or drop by my [twitter](https://twitter.com/zxrysky) and [tumblr](http://zxrysky.tumblr.com/)


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